Pieces of Sky by Kaki Warner Read Free Book Online Page B

“I have never done so, and I—” Her throat constricted when Wilkins ripped open Ashford’s vest. Blood was everywhere, soaking into Ashford’s shirt, caking in the creases of Wilkins’s hands. It smelled worse than the horses and left a sweet, metallic taste in the back of her throat. How could a man lose so much blood and live?
    “Get something for a bandage,” Wilkins ordered.
    What if he died? What if they all died?
    “Do it. Now!”
    She pushed herself to her feet. “Wh-What kind of cloth?”
    “Anything clean. And check the driver’s box for whiskey and a canteen.”
    Careful not to look at the dead horses, she retraced her steps to the front of the coach. In the driver’s box, more blood. Flies. Under the seat she found a canteen and a tin flask. As she climbed back to the ground, she chided herself for being such a coward. She had seen injuries before, even death. She had to pull herself together or she would be of little use to Wilkins and the others.
    “Mrs. Thornton, is that you?”
    Turning, Jessica saw Melanie limping toward her. She looked wretched, her skirts torn, blood from a dozen abrasions showing through a coating of dust. Absurdly, her prim bonnet was still pinned to a knot of hair halfway down her back. But at least she was alive and whole. “Are you injured?” Jessica asked.
    “I’m all right, but I’m worried about Mama. Her ankle’s swollen. It’s not bleeding, but she’s in terrible pain and I don’t know what to do.”
    Jessica blinked at her, feeling trapped in a slow-moving nightmare that seemed to go on without end. “Ashford is hurt,” she said in a hollow voice. “Wilkins will come when he can.”
    “Please,” Melanie begged, reaching for her arm.
    Jessica stepped back. “I can’t. He needs me.” She frowned, trying to think, then remembered. “I have to find cloth for a bandage,” she said and turned away.
    Melanie called after her, but Jessica shut her out and concentrated on the simple task of finding cloth for a bandage. She knew it was cowardly, but she didn’t want to think about the Kinderlys or Mr. Ashford or that crumpled body on the slope. She simply needed time. Soon she would feel stronger and be able to do more. Until then, she would do as she was told and let Wilkins take care of everything.
    When she returned with a shirt, two petticoats, and several men’s kerchiefs, she saw the piece of wood still protruded obscenely from Ashford’s body. Averting her eyes, she knelt beside Wilkins. “Will he live?”
    Wilkins shrugged, his mouth a grim line beneath his dark mustache. “Whiskey?”
    She held out the flask. He took it in fingers that glistened wet and red. “What about Mr. Phelps?” she asked.
    He worked the cork loose with his teeth and spit it aside. “He’s managing.”
    That meant the body on the slope was Bodine’s. She should have felt sad. Or relieved. Or something other than this terrible emptiness.
    Wilkins thrust the flask toward her. “Hold this.”
    She did. The metal was sticky with blood. Numbly, she watched Wilkins tear a petticoat into thin strips. “When I tell you,” he instructed as he tied the ends together to form one long band of cloth, “pour half the whiskey over his side, then the rest on a kerchief. Understand?”
    She nodded, her stomach quivering.
    “When I pull the stick out, there’ll be blood. As long as it’s not spurting, wait a few seconds, then pour. Ready?”
    The flask started to jump in her hand. She took a deep breath, then another, and another. Yet the harder she tried, the less air she seemed to draw into her lungs.
    “Stop that. You’ll pass out.”
    Why couldn’t she breathe?
    “Hell.” He jerked the flask from her grip, picked up one of the kerchiefs, and without warning, clamped the cloth over her mouth, cutting off her air. Frantic, she fought him, but he held her fast with his other arm around her shoulders, pinning her firmly back against his chest. “Breathe,” he ordered,